Losing my mind: Peeta's Hijacking
by CraazyCresta
Summary: After the Quarter Quell, Peeta Mellark was taken hostage by the Capitol. Tortured, hijacked...how does he cope? FanFic from the Capitol, Peeta's POV.
1. Holding On

Blinding, agonising pain. That's all I feel.

I bite back screams.

In the distance, I hear someone shrieking. 'FINNICK!'

Oh, Annie, why are they hurting _you_? You're just a sweet, innocent girl.

More screaming comes from the other direction, wordless and yet filled with torment. That must be Johanna. I wish I could tell her to stay strong.

I wrestle against the restraints. A dark, shadowy figure enters the room, along with the overpowering stench of something...like a flower. A rose. Roses.

Snow.

As the next wave of pain rolls through me, I cry out, unable to contain the torture. Evil laughter is heard. Or is that me? Why am I laughing? No, I'm not laughing, I'm screaming, screaming louder than anything, anyone, my pain echoing off the pure white walls. I'm surrounded by white - everything seems so unreal. Glittering, sparkling, shiny.

As the third wave of venom travels through me, I continue screaming. But, like Annie, I cry out for the only person I've ever truly loved.

'KATNISS!' Her name echoes on the walls, echoes on my voice, and echoes in my mind.

'KATNISS! KATNISS, I LOVE YOU!'

I hold onto her memory then. Because this almost unbearable suffering has only one escape, through my mind, back to her. Seeing her outside the bakery. In school. Plucking dandelions and braiding her hair. Then I remember the cave, when she was with me, kissing me, holding me, nursing me.

And I remember how much I love her.

Before it's gone forever.

As the agony becomes too much, and I slip into unconsciousness, I think only one thing.

I will never love her the same way again.


	2. Meeting Annie

I wake, curled up in my cell. Someone is whimpering beside me. I struggle into a sitting position, trembling violently, as the pain in my head floods my body. In a matter of seconds I'm rocking back and forth, the agony, the total complete agony I'm in taking over me.

Everything hurts. Everywhere hurts. Dark figures prowl my mind, things reach out and grab me. I'm batting away some bats that are tearing at my flesh. I'm blocking out the sound of my brothers screaming. I can't keep hold of myself.

But when her hand rests on my arm, I realise what is real and what is not. Real: I'm in a cell. Not real: bats trying to kill me. Real: I'm in so much pain. Not real: my brothers' screams. Real: someone is talking to me. Their hand is on my arm. They're shaking me gently. Not real: they're going to hurt me. Who are they? A girl, I can hear her voice now. It's soft, gentle, a voice that I vaguely remember but not a voice close to my heart.

She repeats the same phrase over and over again. Why that phrase? What is so important about those words, that _name_?

'Peeta? Peeta Mellark?' The words sound familiar. 'Peeta, can you hear me?'

I flinch away from her. Despite the lack of threat she gives, I'm pinning her to the floor, the shackles round my wrists digging into me. Feels as if I'm about to bleed. No, wait, yeah. I'm bleeding.

A pair of wide eyes stare up at me in the darkness, strangely illuminating. She doesn't make a sound. Her body is tense in my grip. Is she scared of me?

The only thing I know is that I shouldn't be scared of her.

I release her and climb off, still shaking. She immediately retreats into the corner, crying quietly, her hands over her ears. It seems like she's blocking out the world.

Unfortunately, honey, that doesn't work.

Damn, I'm beginning to sound like Haymitch.

Haymitch? I feel myself frown through my numb skin. The thought had appeared so quickly, so naturally in my mind, that I puzzle over it. Who's Haymitch?

The girl's muffled sobs echo round the cell. I try to ignore her, but eventually I give up. Throwing my hands up in frustration, repelling the knife of pain that slices through me at the move, I scream, 'Just _shut up_!'

In an instant she's quiet. I can't see much in the darkness but I see the tear that rolls down her cheek, I hear her bare arms scratch against her clothing as she moves her hands away from her ears.

'Who are you?' I ask, curious, crawling forward.

She raises her head slightly, and the tear drops off her chin. 'Annie,' she whispers.

The name rings a bell, which rings another bell, which then sets off a choir of bells tolling. I squeeze my eyes shut. Annie – Annie Cresta? Why am I in a cell with Annie Cresta?

'Why are we here, Annie?' I ask gently. She doesn't reply. She looks hurt - very hurt. Multiple bruises trail up her arms and her neck and what I can see of her chest. A couple of cuts are streaming blood. One look in her eyes and I know there's a past with Annie that's far worse than my own, and yet she had been the one trying to comfort me.

Annie stares at me, her eyes reminding me of the ocean. I've only seen the ocean once, on the Victory Tour.

The Victory Tour . . . the victors . . . the lovers . . .

Slowly my memory begins to return. I look at Annie, desperate, and whisper, 'Tell me who I am.' It's an odd request. But some things feel so slimy and unreal and shiny that I can't figure out what's wrong and what's right.

Unhesitatingly, she opens her mouth, and begins to speak in a high, tremulous, slightly hysterical voice. Everything she knows about me. The famous Peeta Mellark, star-crossed lover of Twelve.

'You're Peeta Mellark. You won the Hunger Games last year, with your girlfriend, Katniss Everdeen.' At the mention of Katniss I feel a sharp pain, but I let Annie continue. 'The Capitol was angry with you two – you're only supposed to have one victor. This year was the Quarter Quell; a reaping of victors. Katniss went back in and I think you volunteered to stay with her. I don't usually watch the Games, but Finnick was in there. I couldn't stop watching.' Another sharp pang at the mention of Finnick, but I still let Annie continue. 'You and Katniss allied with Finnick. Mags died.' I didn't bother asking who Mags is, or was, but she brought tears to Annie's bright, green eyes. 'Rebels attacked the arena. They left you behind. You, me, Johanna and Eno are here to stay, Peeta Mellark.'

Annie's last words make me pause. 'Here to stay,' I repeat quietly. 'What does that mean?'

'Oh, Peeta Mellark!' Annie's strange, unhappy laughter filed the room, bordering insanity. 'It means pain, interrogation and then death.'


	3. Helping Eno

I haven't spoken to Annie since her outburst. What she said triggered some sort of mental breakdown, and she hasn't moved from her position since. Curled up, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest, hands once again over her ears, constantly trembling.

She hasn't slept, neither have I. I'm trying to figure out all these jolts that go through me when I think of Katniss. I sigh loudly, letting the hair in my eyes flutter like a distant hope only to drop back down and tickle my nose teasingly. I look at Annie, and Enobaria's slumped, unconscious figure, both bleeding, both looking so fragile – so innocent.

I shake the thought away. Annie, maybe. But Enobaria? Innocent isn't killing machine. Innocent isn't gold-tipped fangs. Innocent isn't re-volunteering for the Games after being in there once already. No matter what, I couldn't ever think of Enobaria as innocent.

Although, we _are_ all just pieces in the Games.

Nobody knows where Johanna is. I hear her screaming every now and then, but not for long. I hope she's okay, but I know that's not true.

A movement beside me startles me out of my half-asleep, wide-eyed state. It's Annie, coming out of the strange exit-world she's lived in for the past two days. I call it an exit-world because it's a world where she's able to escape to, a place where she can think she's safe. That's my guess, anyway.

She crawls over to Enobaria slowly, and touches her cheek. 'Eno? Eno, can you hear me? It's Annie.'

It crosses my mind that, as long-time victors, this lot may know each other. May be friends, even. Jo, Annie, Eno . . . I blink, and quietly watch Annie's failed attempts at reviving Eno.

'Peeta Mellark?' she asks, her voice shaken. My head snaps up and I frown.

'Annie?'

'Peeta Mellark, I need your help . . . Eno isn't moving.' The fear in her voice was extremely obvious. More for her sake than Enobaria's, I move forward, slowly, painfully, wincing with every inch I struggle forwards.

Annie grabs hold of my arm, and it's the first time I've looked at her properly. Her eyes remind me of Finnick Odair's eyes, a perfect shade of sea-green. Her untamed, tangled hair, matted with blood and sweat and dirt, falls down to her waist. Her pale face is almost bloodless, contrasting greatly with all the shadows of the dimly-lit cell. I study the rest of her, seeing things like bloodstained clothing and relentless shivering.

'Peeta Mellark, help –'

I cut her off quickly. 'Please, just call me Peeta.'

That's one of the better things about our two-day silence. I've been piecing my life back together, and now I remember pretty much everything. A couple of blank spots, but I know enough.

Well, I know enough to know that my name is definitely Peeta, and Annie has Finnick's eyes. That should be enough.

She nods distractedly. 'Peeta. Help Eno. Please . . . I don't know how . . .' Poor Annie looks like she could have another breakdown any moment.

Swallowing, I try and concentrate. Enobaria. The worst wound, I would say, is the one on her left arm. Nervously, I close my eyes, trying to think back to the 74th Hunger Games – when Katniss had been my healer.

It's useless. It's one of my blank spots, but I can't tell if that's because of the torture or the fact that I was running such a high temperature. I don't know. But I'll have to rely on my own common sense for now.

I take a deep breath, and look down at my clothes. What do I use? Eventually, all I can think to do is peel off a sweaty, stinking sock that I've had on for – well, I don't know, but a long time – and tie it round the gash.

Annie doesn't realise that this has little or no effect on Enobaria's chance of survival, and she's brimming with thanks. 'Oh, Peeta, thank you, thank you, I don't want Eno to die, thank you . . .'

Annie's praise is cut short, as the cell door swings open. I catch sight of Johanna as she's tossed inside, her hair shaved off and her body quivering. She looks ill. No, more than that, she looks tortured beyond belief.

Before I have time to help her, even call out her name, the Peacekeepers take my arms and drag me from the cell.


	4. Prep team

I don't struggle. I'm far too weak and besides, who knows what the consequences could be? Annie, Enobaria, Johanna. Me. Anyone could be hurt by my actions. It's not something I enjoy imagining, really.

I catch Annie's eyes before they slam the cell door shut. _Don't worry; I'll be fine, stay safe._ When our eyes meet it says everything. _Peeta, don't go, don't leave me alone, Eno and Jo are unconscious . . ._ Every single tile that passes under me as I'm tugged along catches on my bare feet, sharp and digging. Soon enough a small trail of blood is left in my wake. It's funny, because I'm taller than all of the Peacekeepers, and I must be twice their weight in muscle alone, and yet they still have complete power over me. I'm forced to stumble and attempt to keep up.

They take me to a gleaming, sterile, white room, one that vaguely registers in my memory. Before I can ask where I am, though, before I can even look around properly, I'm left completely alone, my wrists chained to the bed.

I'm left there for what must be only half an hour, but it feels like days. My mind wanders to Katniss for the millionth time. Is she okay? Where is she? And why do I still feel sharp jolts, shivers down my spine, when I think of her?

The door opens, and two people walk in. They both stop and stare at me for a moment, surveying me, their drawn-on eyebrows angling into a frown. I recognise them, not personally, but anyone would be able to tell who they are.

They're a prep team.

The first one – the leader, I would guess – has deep blue skin, with swirling silver patterns travelling up his arms. His grotesquely lengthened eyelashes almost block his vision, also blue, and his puffy, pale aqua lips are pressed together tightly, disapproving. The other one, a girl this time, looks me in the eye and I'm startled. Her eyes are burning orange. Not my orange, my favourite sunset colour, but a bright, hideous orange. Like Effie's wig or the backpacks from the arena. Apart from her eyes, the rest of her looks fairly normal, if not heavily caked in makeup. She's a rainbow, she must be, from the greens and the yellows and the purples and the astounding contrast of dyes. Not even my paintbrush could make all those colours.

Wordlessly, the man opens a cupboard in the corner. He takes out tools, gels, colours, various equipment. The girl takes them and puts them on the table beside my bed.

I stare at them. 'What are you doing?' I ask, completely baffled. I had been expecting torture. Possibly even execution. Not a beautification session.

The girl shakes her head, giving off a high-pitched, tinkling laughter. 'You must know why you're here, Mr Mellark!' However, her laughter stops as the man shot her a look. I may have misinterpreted it . . . but it seemed like a warning glance.

The man turns to me. He looks like the more intelligent one, despite the fact that he can barely keep his eyelids open from the weight of his false lashes. 'You're here for your Beauty Base Zero.' I've heard of Beauty Base Zero. It's a common phrase around the prep teams. 'You'll be on camera tonight – an interview with Caesar Flickerman. The people of Panem await news of the famous Peeta Mellark.'

The people of Panem aren't the only ones awaiting news of the famous Peeta Mellark. I'm just as updated as they are. Less, probably. 'What about Katniss? Where is she?' I blurt out desperately, my fingers curling into fists.

Now both the man and the woman look confused. 'Do you really have no idea what's going on, Mr Mellark?'

I wonder why everyone has such a problem with my name. 'It's Peeta,' I tell them impatiently. 'And no, nobody's told me anything. Last thing I remember is Katniss shooting the forcefield. Then a huge blank. Then I'm in in a cell with Enobaria and Annie Cresta.'

The prep teams' wide eyes widen even further at the mention of a _cell_. 'But you're not criminals!' the girl protested. 'Surely they're just – maybe you're – uhm . . .'

I begin to laugh, bitterly, at the expression on her face. 'I have a feeling, actually, that I've been a criminal ever since I made it out of the 74th Games alive.'

The man looks to the girl. 'Okay, Sasha, you can go.'

'But –'

'_Go_.' The man's voice turns from gentle to steely in a matter of seconds. The girl simply nods, and leaves the room hurriedly. Her extremely short dress, which is made of every colour that exists, floats behind her as she quietly but quickly shuts the door.

The man looks at me coldly. I wonder briefly what I've done to deserve a look like that, but before I can ask, the update I've been longing for pours out of his mouth.

'Peeta, you were in the Games. Katniss blew up the forcefield and the rebels from District 13 attacked the arena. They took Finnick, Katniss and Beetee but you, Johanna and Enobaria were left behind. Annie Cresta was taken from District 4 to use against Finnick. Johanna is being tortured for information.' The man frowns, a trace of what could be sadness in his eyes. 'You're the Capitol's weapon.'

'I'm a weapon?'

'Yes. The weapon against Katniss Everdeen.'


	5. Brand new Peeta

I stare at myself in the mirror, waiting for the show to start. Tuxedo. Gelled back hair. Shiny, brand new Peeta. I look perfect.

I've had the worst week of my life, but oh well. Panem doesn't want a broken boy who struggles to remember his fiancée, they want the man that won the 74th Hunger Games. They want the one who was paraded in the Opening Ceremony to look like a torch. They want the man that is fun, easy-going, humorous and charming.

I just don't know how to be that man anymore.

But I have to try, right? Because I can only imagine how much depends on this interview. Getting the districts to side with the Capitol. Getting the districts to side with the rebels. I know I have the ability to change people's minds, with words or actions, but there are those who could be hurt much easier.

I don't want them to hurt Katniss. Johanna. Annie. I barely know Johanna and Annie, but I still don't want them . . . hurt.

Side with the rebels? Keep my friends safe? After my one-man prep team's summary, I know everything and anything about the Capitol, the Quell, District 13 and the rebellion. He was much smarter than any prep team I'd met before. He knows what's going on.

In a way, he reminded me of Cinna and Portia. I'm not sure why. I'm not even sure if I can trust what I remember about our faithful stylists. But the man told me that Cinna was dead and Portia arrested.

I have no idea what the prep team guy's name is, so I nickname him Eyelashes, for the gross, false lashes that are by far his most memorable feature. Eyelashes has told me everything, prettied me up, hidden the days of neglect and shoved me back into the role of the man I once was. I can't exactly thank him.

I take to the stage, as the Capitol audience screams my name. Somehow, I manage to pull up that once-effortless smile, and meet Caesar on the stage, slumping back on my chair and resting my left ankle on my right knee. _Look cool. Act casual_.

Caesar seems to relax too, and looks at me for a long time, studying me. 'So Peeta . . . welcome back,' he says eventually.

I smile slightly. This must be almost as weird for him as it is for me. 'I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar.'

'I confess, I did. That night before the Quarter Quell . . . well, who ever thought we'd see you again?'

I frown, trying to remember my plan. Obviously, it hasn't worked out for me, whatever it was. 'It wasn't part of my plan,' I say truthfully, 'that's for sure.'

I hold my breath as Caesar leans forward, and only just holds back a laugh as the crowd does the same. _Oh, Caesar, you can captivate a crowd, alright_. But Caesar's next words don't surprise me. In fact, they merely confirm any doubts I had. 'I think it was clear what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the in the arena so Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive.'

So I have a child? It worries me that I don't even remember that. But I keep calm, my foot tapping the floor in a hiccupping beat, my fingers tracing the pattern of thread along the arm of the chair. 'That was it. Clear and simple. But other people had plans as well.'

Eyelashes told me all about that. The rebels busting us out. Well . . . some of us. I'm glad they got Katniss out, but I still can't help but feel angry. They left me here to die. Willingly. I feel my body tense and my face in a deep frown, so I shake it away and smile again with my perfect teeth. There's a long pause, when neither of us know what to say – which is a first for Caesar Flickerman – before he pipes up with a suggestion. 'Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena? Help us sort a few things out.'

I nod, but take my time. 'That last night . . . to tell you about that last night . . .' Then I tell him everything. I tell him how I felt, how I feel, what being a tribute is actually like. Nobody in the Capitol has ever heard anything like this before. They've never wanted to. But now, as _the_ Peeta Mellark sits on live television, he gives them everything. I paint a picture with my words.

'As bad as it makes you feel, you're going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you get only one wish. And it's very costly.' I sound so matter-of-fact, I want to strangle myself.

'It costs your life,' Caesar says. It's almost a question.

'Oh, no,' I reply, shaking my head. 'It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people? It costs you everything you are.'

'_Everything you are_,' Caesar repeats quietly, his expression unreadable. I can feel something; I'm pretty sure the whole of Panem can feel it. A quiet, eerie silence, as the Capitol tries to understand my elaborate words. It's a first, right? Explaining the arena. Showing people what it's really like.

The rest of the interview passes in a blur. I call for a ceasefire. I know it won't work. I can almost imagine Katniss's face, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, maybe happy to see me alive or maybe not.

And I will be called a traitor.


	6. A Jolt of Pain

Screaming.

Bitter shrieking.

Crying out for someone.

'FINNICK!'

I try to block it out. I try to pretend they haven't got Annie strapped to a table, torturing her, taunting her. I try to pretend that it's not real.

But of course, it's real. I close my eyes, and hunch over, trying to block out a scream that will haunt me for days to come. Weeks. Months. Possibly even years. I don't know . . . I don't want to know. It depends how much longer I'm alive for, I guess.

The cell door opens and Annie is tossed inside like trash, hitting the floor with a painful _thump_. I stare at her for several moments, trying to assess the damage from a distance.

Once little Cresta wakes up, a day has passed. Eno has been taken away to a different cell, of course – District 2 was always treated the best. Johanna is still being worked on 24/7.

Annie sits up, whimpering in pain, and her arms wraps round her knees, pulling them to her chest. Her hands raise to her face, covering her ears in a way that looks like she's done it many times before. Her expression, filled with fear and hatred, relaxes into a dazed blank.

I know what's happening, obviously, because I've seen this position before. Her exit-world.

I crawl forwards, and wrap my arm round her cold, stiff shoulders. 'Annie?' I ask. My voice cracks. 'Annie, don't go, don't leave me here alone . . .'

I want to stay strong. Everyone always _wants_ to stay strong. But I'm at breaking point and I can't handle it. I've been here mere days, and already I'm beginning to fall apart – who knows how long I'll be here? I simply hold onto Annie, trying to stop her from shaking, trying to calm her down.

'Annie . . . Annie . . . it's okay, everything's going to be okay.'

'Why do they keep hurting me?' she whispers, her voice barely audible in the deafening emptiness of our cell. I pull her onto my lap, gently, and her arms wrap round my waist.

'Oh, Annie, I don't know. But Finnick will be here soon. He'll come to save us, I know it. He won't leave us here.' My fingers start running through her hair, softly, carefully, separating knots and repetitively stroking down. Her forehead rests against my chest, and she breathes out shakily.

'What about Katniss, Peeta?'

There it is again. A jolt of pain, starting at my neck and flitting down my spine. It makes me shiver, which gains me a strange look from Annie. I shake my head, but she presses into me, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown. 'What's wrong?'

'It's just . . . Katniss. Every time I think of her, it feels – wrong. Scary. Like I should be scared . . . of _her_.'

'That's stupid,' says Annie mildly. 'You and Katniss are in love, right? I bet she misses you an awful lot right now. She'll come to rescue you just like Finnick will come for me. That's how love works, you see?' She smiles, a genuinely happy smile which is something I personally have never seen on her face. It transforms her – it makes her look completely different. Almost like under the wild eyes, tangled hair and translucent skin there was once a beautiful girl. But the Games took that from Annie.

The Games takes the best part of us all.

And I can't bring myself to tell her the truth. Because if Annie finds out that Katniss's love for me is a lie, then I'm afraid that brilliant yet temporary smile will go. It's funny, looking at Annie, because she may be older than me but I think of her as childlike. When she smiles, she's radiant. When her eyes meet mine, she's _alive,_ truly alive. And I can't take that from her. Because telling Annie that Katniss doesn't love me could do anything to her, and I don't want to take that risk. It could crush her. This idea she has that _love conquers all_, it won't work. And it's nice to see Annie happy for once.

So I merely pat her arm, and nod. 'Of course, Annie. That's how love works.'

And I'm rewarded with another extra-special smile.

As Annie moves away, to go sit beside the door – something she always does, I don't know why – I think of Katniss. Does she love me? And what does it mean if she does? Suddenly, I don't want her to. I don't want Katniss to love me. Because if Katniss Everdeen is in love with Peeta Mellark, then Peeta Mellark becomes the weapon. That's what Eyelashes was talking about. And whatever they do to me, whatever horrid torture they put me through, there will only be one goal.

To cripple Katniss. To hurt her in a way that can't be repaired.

Eyelashes had used the term 'The Mockingjay'. Like Katniss's pin, like her wedding dress, like Cinna's styling. Is this the rebellion's new symbol? Is Katniss the official mascot? The idea sickens and elates me in two completely different ways.

As I curl up on the cold, tiled floor, my eyes closed from sheer exhaustion, I realise one thing. I've just been thinking about Katniss for the past hour or so . . .

And not once did I feel that jolt of pain.


	7. Katniss killed -

I stare him in the eye. Fear threatens to take over me but I force it down, just as I forced it down in the reaping for the 74th Games. Don't cry. _Don't cry_. Don't even tremble. Focus on him. Focus on how much you hate him.

I've met Coriolanus Snow in person only once before, when crowned victor. Standing beside Katniss, holding her hand. I remember how nervous I was then.

It's nothing compared to how I feel now. The complete terror gripping me is enough to paralyze me; the fear of what comes next. Death? I pray for death. Death will be fine, almost relieving.

Of course, I don't get death. I get President Snow, standing before me in a pure white suit and a deep red rose pinned to his blazer. I feel like spitting on him just to end the perfection. Or maybe throwing up will be more effective.

As the needle is inserted into my arm I bite back a yelp. Can I make a sound? I have no idea. I still feel paralyzed, although whether that's physical or emotional, I also have no idea.

'Peeta Mellark, winner of the 74th annual Hunger Games, survivor of the 75th . . . we shall be giving you a special form of treatment.' Snow's eyes meet mine and hold them.

'Treatment?'

He doesn't answer. Or maybe he does and I can't hear him.

Because at that moment, I am met with complete and total agony.

The effect it has is almost immediate. I am blinded and deafened and I wish I could be numb. But no, I'm not numb, I'm on fire, I'm on fire, I'm burning alive in cold, crystal ice. I can't help but scream.

I know Annie can hear my screams but I don't care. Why would anyone care about her when I'm burning? It's under my skin, in my mind, poisoning me. I've only felt anything remotely like this before.

Tracker Jacker venom.

But not like this. No. Before, I had only one sting. Painful, yes, unbelievably painful. But this is just –

The next wave of pain hits as the next dose of venom hits my bloodstream. I'm shrieking, writhing on the table, struggling against my restraints. Beads of sweat appear on my forehead but I barely notice, as a dizzying rush jolts through me.

That jolt of pain . . . it's familiar. Unnervingly familiar. It's the same as I get when I think of Katniss, but amplified to about ten times stronger. Before I can think about it more, however, the hallucinations hit.

They must be hallucinations. How else is Snow turning into a ghost? No, more than a ghost . . . he's fading away. Far away. Where's he going?

I can only assume they're mutts.

They're eating me alive.

Flashbacks. Mingling with hallucinations. Mingling with pain. Every single mutation I've ever seen in my life, from the dogs to the monkeys to the Jabberjays, they're hurling themselves at me. I'm going to die.

I'm going to die?

I'm going to die.

But then I see something. A flash of brilliant orange, not the sunset colour I've always loved but a distressingly flame-like glow. I stare at it, the pain still unbearably obvious in my body.

Out of nowhere, a Mockingjay. Flames. A Mockingjay.

_Katniss._

_KATNISS!_

I scream her name, struggling, growing ever weaker. Something's wrong. It's Katniss, I can see her, but why . . . ?

Marvel. She shoots Marvel. Watches Cato get torn to death by mutts with ease. I watch, panting, sweat trickling down my forehead, as she drops the Tracker Jacker nest on us.

This is wrong. No, no, it's not. It's the 74th Games highlights. She killed Marvel and Cato and Glimmer . . . and who's this? I watch the screen as Katniss's hand wraps round a spear. Funny – I don't remember her ever using a spear. But no, she leaves it lodged into the victim's stomach. Another victim of hers, no doubt.

But the intense shock comes when I see her victim. Small, young, with dark skin and a large bloodstain on her shirt. The little girl.

Rue.

Katniss killed Rue. Katniss killed Rue. The idea is so disgusting, so horrific, so –

Katniss killed Rue.

A few more clips come on. Katniss leaving the old woman – so this is Mags, Annie's friend – to die in the fog, and pointing her arrow at Finnick, and then suddenly she shoots the forcefield.

Why did she shoot the forcefield? Why did she want us dead? We were friends, lovers even. But that was a lie. She was a lie.

Katniss Everdeen is a lie.

She left me here to die. It seems so clear now. Katniss left me to die, Finnick left Annie too. We've been played. Betrayed.

And the pain in my veins, in my mind, that pain has shattered me. I am broken. I am lost. I am dying.

Kill me now.

Katniss killed Rue.

Just kill me like Katniss killed Rue.

I open my mouth for one last scream, and darkness swallows me.


	8. Scary Hatred

'Peeta. Peeta, wake up. Peeta!'

My eyelids flutter open as my eyes strain to adjust to the darkness. I see a face, pale, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

Before the girl can even move, I lunge at her, pinning her to the ground. Chains wrapped round my wrist dig into my skin, so hard and sharp that I'm suddenly bleeding. I stare at my hands, confused.

The girl's screaming. I just want her to shut up.

I release my grip on her shoulders and my fingers lock round her throat, squeezing so tightly I'm ready to break her neck. Her screams choke – then die out. Then a moment later, she's gasping for air, her long, unkempt fingernails scratching hopelessly at my hands.

Suddenly, her neck is drenched in blood. What have I done?

It's not her blood. It's mine.

Deep scarlet tracks run down my wrists from the handcuffs into the palms of my hands, pooling slightly. I let go of the girl's throat finally, and she gasps for breath.

'P-Peeta? Peeta, it's m-me! It's Annie!' Her voice cracks and tears start to pour down her face.

I don't care about Annie. 'Where is she?' I demand.

'Where's – where's wh-who, Peeta?'

'Where is Katniss Everdeen?' An electric spark of rage flits through me when I say her name. _She killed Rue._

Who could actually kill such an innocent little girl that she herself had said reminded her of her sister? And, worse, how had I fallen in love with her?

'She's in Thirteen. Peeta,' Annie pleads, 'you know that!'

I look down and stare into her bright eyes, shining with tears and reflecting the colour of the sea. District Four, it's obvious.

Four's words don't make sense. 'How would I know? I don't – I can't – she killed Rue.'

'She killed _who_?'

'_Rue_!'

Confusion registers on the girl's face as she struggles to keep up with me. 'Who's Rue?' she asks in a small voice, attempting to edge out from under my crushing weight.

I make no haste to help her. I'm frozen inside myself. 'Katniss,' I mutter. 'Katniss.'

The girl's face relaxes as she hears the tone of my voice. 'Yes, Peeta.' She sounds strained. 'Yes. Katniss.'

Everything clicks into place. 'Katniss.' I pause. 'Annie.'

'Yes, Peeta, yes, that's me.'

'You're _Katniss_?'

'I'm Annie!'

I have the strangest feeling inside of me. A pounding headache, rushed adrenaline, pure hatred. But it's the hatred bit that's scary. Because I don't hate the Capitol. Or even the Careers. I hate Katniss.

She killed Rue.

No, that's stupid. Marvel killed Rue and Katniss killed Marvel because he killed Rue.

_Katniss killed Rue._

_'No!' _I yell, hitting my head against the wall. A sharp, jagged pain ricochets through me and I yelp, my shackled hands flying to the source of the pain.

Annie gets there first, assessing the damage in the blink of an eye. 'Peeta,' she says nervously, 'what did they do to you?'

I open my mouth to answer. They tortured me. They changed my memory. They changed my feelings. But instead of speaking, I give a heart-wrenching sob and bury my face in my knees.


	9. What a Shame

Annie hasn't taken her eye off me. Not once. Not for a moment. It's been days, surely, but without windows or regular meals, neither of us can tell exactly how long. I don't stop shaking; trembling constantly with fear. I try to calm myself to stay strong for Annie, but she doesn't seem fazed. She just keeps watching me. The other day, she explained that it was a 'just-in-case', after my freak out moment with Katniss, and Rue, and . . . I understand it all now. They must've done something to me that made me temporarily confused. I'm fine now, obviously. I don't doubt Katniss for a minute.

I look over at Annie now, huddled over in the corner with her tray by her side. I glance at my untouched food and then back at her, shivering with the cold and getting thinner by the day. Making up my mind quickly, I crawl over to her tray, bringing mine with it, and switch them over. Then I take her empty tray back, leaving her with the food. I don't feel hungry. She needs it more.

At least, that's what I try to convince myself.

'Annie. Annie, wake up . . .' I nudge her arm with my foot. 'Annie. They brought you food.' As she stirs, I smile encouragingly, and point to the tray beside her.

Her eyes widen. 'Twice . . . in one day?'

I have to say, if the idea of helping her wasn't enough to make me do this, the delight in her face is. I nod with a forced smile that must be believable enough for her, because she immediately snatches a bread roll from the plate and it's gone before I can blink.

'Have you already eaten?' she asks me, her mouth half-full of bread. I smile and nod, gesturing to what was her tray and is merely littered with a few crumbs. She picks up what I think is cheese, but it looks dangerously discoloured.

'Annie, do you want to leave that bit?' I suggest, but then shake my head. Any food is better than letting the girl starve to death – plus, we're both victors. We can handle this.

Annie shows herself as a victor and merely uses the edge of the plate to scrape off the outside, revealing safe and normal cheese. I swallow my hunger and sigh. _We're both victors. We can handle this._

Victors only had to survive the Games, though, then they were 'free'. Who knows how long we'll be here?

I'm trying to forget about Katniss, and Finnick, and Beetee, and Eno. I'm trying to focus on Annie. She needs protecting, from the Capitol, from the rebels, from herself. No point in dwelling on Katniss right now – I may never see her again. We've been here so long, I'm starting to lose hope in everything. In everyone I previously trusted. All I have is Annie and mouldy cheese and the fear of being tortured again to the point of not knowing who I am. It's not fun, to say the least.

Johanna's been gone for a long time. Maybe she's dead.

_What a shame_.

The thought shocks me. _What a shame_. How cold – how heartless of me to think that. I'm Peeta Mellark. I care about others, I care whether Johanna lives or not. I don't pass that as _what a shame_. I'm the Boy with the Bread, I'm one of the star-crossed lovers, I'm the one that was ready to die so that Katniss may win the Games. I'm allies, _friends_ with Johanna. _What a shame_ wouldn't be my reaction if she died. _What a shame _wouldn't be my reaction to _anything_.

The Capitol has changed me and I don't like it.

I need to get myself back, and fast.

But . . . how?


End file.
